


An Offshoot of Aesthetics

by CynicInAFishbowl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Moderate burn, dealing with abandonment, it's mainly light comedy i promise, not being good at certain sports, really unfortunate meet-cutes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicInAFishbowl/pseuds/CynicInAFishbowl
Summary: An epic lovestory featuring everyone's favourite part-time emo, his lunatic friends, and the gradual descent into farce that is his life.





	An Offshoot of Aesthetics

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted that I have set this fic in a universe (which may or may not reflect the canon universe) where the GPF mentioned in the show was the 2013 GPF. Bear that in mind. It's really only relevant when it comes to the Olympics mentioned, but still. Be alert, not alarmed.

In retrospect, Georgi should have known that something was about to happen, because Mila had winced pre-emptively. Georgi was skating about the rink, demonstrating the correct way to serenade a woman (Mila’s latest hockey player had sung to her, she thought it was terribly romantic, she showed them some video of it, it was just terrible), when Mila winced. A moment later, something collided with him, knocking him flat on his back with no warning. Unaccustomed to falling with no warning whatsoever (the only way to survive a fall in a routine was to brace every time he did a jump, so that he could get up again immediately if he didn’t make it), Georgi found himself winded for the first time in years.

Then the yelling started. “What the fuck were you doing, skating around without looking where you’re going? Making all that fucking noise? You come here, to our rink, and you get in the way of our fucking practice! Do you know how important it is that we can focus on what we’re doing? It’s bad enough that you’re here, carving up our surface all hours of the day. Then you’re making a fucking scene while we’re trying to practice, and you would have skated right into it if I hadn’t happened to look up at the right moment and decided to get you out of the way. Do you know what one of those stones weighs?” One of her teammates put a hand on her shoulder and murmured something, and she shook them off and advanced on Georgi, who had dragged himself upright, but was still struggling to regain his breath, transfixed. “More than 40 pounds. Do you know what happens when you skate into 40 pounds of granite? Something breaks. And I can fucking guarantee that it isn’t the stone. Did you not notice that we were using the ice? Is that what it was?”

All three of her teammates came over and physically walked her away. One of them was talking softly to her, while another had turned around to glare at Georgi. Able to breathe again, although relatively sure that it wasn’t just his pride that had been bruised, Georgi got up and skated over to the boards where Mila was standing, eyebrows raised. “You really pissed her off,” she commented.

“What happened?” Georgi asked, still not entirely sure.

“You were skating a bit close, and she checked you. Her technique was flawless. The way she angled her shoulders to deal with the fact that you were taller than her? She’s played ice hockey.”

“But the yelling!”

Mila shrugged and patted Georgi on the shoulder. “She’s not wrong. We did take over their rink, and you were being a bit… loud. Although you were right. There is a right and a wrong way to serenade a girl.” She hugged him over the boards and headed off. “Don’t let Yakov see the bruising tomorrow or he’s going to kill you,” she called over her shoulder.

Georgi skated slowly to an exit, keeping close to the wall and a watchful eye on the curlers, none of whom were paying him any more mind. Surprise renovations meant that their home rink was closed indefinitely, and with the Olympics fast approaching, not to mention the Grand Prix Final, the only rink available anywhere near as much as they needed it was a rink generally home to a reasonably successful curling club. Nobody was happy with the arrangement, least of all anyone’s coaches, but it was the situation with which they had to work.

Georgi was unlacing his skates when an unbidden thought came to him. _Why was I so turned on by that?_

He shook himself out of that thought. The woman yelling at him had been the scariest person he had met since Lilia. Ideally he would never run into her ever again, and he would be able to pretend that none of that had ever happened. He could almost hear his mind, which sounded worryingly like Christophe, saying, _Remember Anya? Dude, you have a fucking type._

Georgi didn’t want to know why his internal monologue sounded like Christophe.

He could, however, talk to the real Christophe. He opened WhatsApp and typed,

_This curler just bodychecked me and then yelled at me until the rest of her team physically pulled her away. And I found that attractive. Wtf?_

As if drawn by interpersonal awkwardness, Christophe was typing almost immediately.

_Dude, you have a fucking type._

_What is it with you and dragon ladies._

Georgi choked on the water he was drinking when he read that. He had clearly been spending too much time messaging Christophe if that was how accurately he was able to predict what he would say.

_So should I ask her out?_

_First tell me how she came to bodycheck and then yell at you._

_Our rink is out of commission due to ‘renovations’, so we’re sharing with some curlers._

_Mila’s latest hockey player gave her a terrible impression of how a man should go about serenading a lady, and so I was showing her how it really ought to be done._

_You weren’t doing Mein Lieber Schwan again, were you?_

_What difference does it make which aria I was doing?_

_So that’s a yes._

_Obviously, I’m good at it._

_Anyway, Mila said I skated a bit too close, so she took me out._

_Apparently her technique was flawless._

_And immediately you were turned on?_

_Immediately I was winded._

_Then I was being yelled at._

_Then later I was turned on._

_By the sound of that, the first thing you should do is apologise for interrupting her practice._

_Then maybe you can explain why it was that you were skating around singing bits of Lohengrin like an idiot._

_THEN you can try asking her out._

_I’m about to start training. Keep me updated._

 

Georgi played around on his phone until she finished training. He got to his feet as they started walking back towards the edge of the ice.

“Koshka,” one of them said to the one who had yelled at him, “the idiot boy seems to be waiting for you.”

She rolled her eyes and walked over to where Georgi was standing. “I wanted to apologise for--”

She held up a finger to stop him and checked her phone, which had just beeped from her pocket. She groaned and turned to one of her teammates, all of whom were clustered very clearly within eavesdropping distance. “Boris is ‘sick’ and can’t get to the game tonight.”

“Fuck. Where are we going to find someone halfway competent at this much notice.”

There was a pause, and she looked back at Georgi, a  worrying look starting to form on her face. “Have you ever played ice hockey?”

“No!”

She rolled her eyes slightly as if to imply that she wasn’t surprised and turned back to her teammate. “Say, Zhenya, he’d probably fit Fedya’s high school gear, don’t you think?”

Her teammate shrugged. “He’s a bit smaller in general, but it’d do.”

Back to Georgi. “What size are your skates?”

“Why?”

“Because I need a guy who can skate to fill a spot on my hockey team, and then I might feel inclined to actually listen to your apology, and you sure as shit can’t play hockey in those skates.”

“40.”

“Perfect.” She turned back to her teammate, who was waiting with eyebrows raised.  “Get on the chat. Tell Boris that he’s a piece of shit, and tell everyone else that I’ve got us covered.” She smiled wolfishly at Georgi and held out a hand to shake. “Yekaterina.”

“Georgi.”

“You can tell me what the fuck you were doing this afternoon on the way. You’re coming home with me, I’m going to fit you out in some of my little brother’s hockey gear, and then you’re going to spend the duration of the game keeping out of everyone’s way and trying not to get hit.” She reconsidered what she was saying. “Again,” she amended.

“I’ll see you at the rink,” her teammate called, walking off as she messaged.

“You, come with me,” Yekaterina said, leading the way to the exit. “So what the fuck was that this afternoon?”

“So Mila, the girl I was singing at, keeps dating all these meathead hockey players, and the latest one decided that he was going to serenade her. She showed me a video. He was so bad. She thought that it was romantic. But it was SO BAD. So I showed her how it was meant to be done. And I wasn’t concentrating. I’m sorry I got in the way.”

Yekaterina shrugged. “You took the hit like a champ, so you’ve got that going for you. Do you have the video?”

“No, but I can get her to send it to me,” Georgi said, messaging Mila as he walked.

_Can you send me that video of what’s-his-name singing to you?_

_Please tell me that this is because you’re letting the scary lady compare performances!!!!!!!!!_

_She’s somehow co-opted me into her hockey team._

_Help._

_I will do no such thing._

Mila sent the video and then very pointedly set her WhatsApp to ‘offline’.

Georgi opened the video and handed his phone across. When the video was over, Yekaterina snorted and handed it back. “You’re right. He was bad. You were way better,” she commented.

They walked in silence for a while. Eventually they arrived in front of a block of flats, and ushering him inside one of them. As they took off their outer layers, a voice called out “Katyushka, is that you?”

“Yes. I just need to grab some of Fedya’s old high school gear. We’re down on numbers and so I grabbed the nearest figure skater and press-ganged him into filling in.”

“It should all still be in his room. Feel free to introduce him.”

“Yes, dad.” She turned to Georgi. “Come on. We should probably eat something before we stick you out on the ice.”

Wondering how he had found himself in this situation, Georgi followed her to the kitchen, where her father was reading a newspaper. “Dad, this is Georgi. Georgi, this is my father, Andrei.”

“Hi.”

Her father looked Georgi over in a way that hinted at disapproval. “You’re a figure skater?” he enquired.

“Their rink is out of commission, so we’ve got half the Olympic team sharing a space with us,” Yekaterina explained.

“When are you playing?”

“The game’s at nine, but I wanted to get there as early as possible to see if he can learn how to use a stick.”

“Go get him kitted out. I’ll make you some sandwiches, and you can take them with you.”

Yekaterina grabbed Georgi by the arm and pulled him out of the kitchen. “Thanks, dad!” she called as she dragged Georgi up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. She opened a door and shoved him inside. “My younger brother just started college. He’s on a hockey scholarship at Toronto. You should fit some of his old high school stuff,” she explained. “Are you still wearing tights under there?” she asked. Georgi nodded. “Good. Trackpants off. And jacket. We need to check that everything fits.”

And so Georgi found himself stuffed into a pair of padded shorts, shoulder, shin, and elbow pads, a neck protector, helmet, and gloves. Yekaterina stepped back to admire her handiwork and snapped a photo. “Good. It all fits. Now sit on the bed and see if the skates fit.” She handed him a pair of skates which were very far removed from what he was used to. Georgi sat down and tried to reach his feet, flailing around when he couldn’t. Yekaterina laughed. “You’re hopeless,” she said, giving him a push to counteract the restriction to his range of motion from the various armour. Georgi laced his feet in and nodded. “Good. You’re set.” She pulled Georgi back to standing once his feet were free from the skates. “Get all that off and stick it in this bag.” Yekaterina handed him a bag with the skates, some socks and a gigantic shirt and pair of shorts.

“I don’t know how,” Georgi admitted after looking down at the various layers of padding covering him.

Yekaterina stifled a giggle and set to unbuckling things. “I’m going to have to help you get ready again, aren’t I.”

“Probably.”

“So what do you do when you’re not training?” she asked once he was free and packing the padding away. Georgi looked at her oddly. “I’m a physio,” Yekaterina explained. “Curling isn’t my job.”

Georgi shrugged. “Skating is basically my job. It has been since I was eleven and started training seriously. I was home schooled so that I could train full time.”

“And what about when you retire? I googled you,” she admitted, “you’re near retirement age.”

“I do what all old figure skaters do. Do a few ice shows. Cultivate an online presence. Go into coaching. Both my skating coach and ballet teacher need someone to help with the younger ones, so I’ll probably start there.” Georgi looked over at Yekaterina, who was leaning against the doorframe. “I haven’t really put much thought into retirement yet. I’ve just been focussing on the Olympics, which are going to be my final competition.”

Georgi shouldered the bag and followed Yekaterina past her room, where she grabbed a similar bag and a hockey stick, and back downstairs. “Do you think you’ll win?” she asked.

“Honestly? Who knows. Little Yuri, who is on track to do terribly well in the Grand Prix final, is taking a break, because he’s only sixteen and he has ages. Viktor, the greatest skater of our generation, was playing at being retired all year, so even if he were to show up at nationals, he’d be so horrifically out of shape that he’d never have a chance. They’re both significantly better skaters than I am, so there’s really no more point trying to stick it out past the Olympics, because once they’re both competing well, I haven’t got a hope. As for the Olympics? There are six or seven of us, all of whom could potentially win, it just depends on the routines we skate on the day.”

Georgi followed her into the kitchen where she grabbed the sandwiches and said goodbye to her father, and then followed her to the door. “Don’t forget a stick!” her father called after them.

“Thanks!” Yekaterina called back, ducking into a closet and returning with a slightly dusty ice hockey stick, which she handed to Georgi. “Come on, we’re catching a train.”

Once they were on the train, which had miraculously had available seats, Yekaterina handed Georgi a sandwich and started scrolling through her phone as she ate hers. “Trust me,” she said, typing something, “you’re going to need the energy.”

Georgi did as he was instructed, and pulled out his own phone. Which was packed with notifications. Most of which were from Christophe. All of which were asking for updates. He opened WhatsApp.

_Georgi_

_GEORGI_

_CHECK YOUR PHONE_

_MILA JUST TOLD ME THAT THE SCARY LADY IS FORCING YOU TO PLAY ICE HOCKEY_

_WHAT IS GOING ON_

_WHY ARE YOU CHECKING NONE OF YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA_

_PLEASE TELL ME THAT THE TWO OF YOU ARE MAKING OUT_

As he read, the status bar changed to say ‘Christophe is typing’.

_ALRIGHT I KNOW YOU’RE ONLINE EVERYTHING JUST CHANGED TO ‘SEEN’_

_she needed someone to fill in a spot on her team_

_I think she’s in a social league or something_

_she dragged me to her house and kitted me out with her little brother’s protective gear_

_I could barely move there was so much padding_

_now we’re on our way to the rink where she’s going to try to teach me how to play_

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAH_

_I’M CACKLING_

_HOW DO YOU FIND YOURSELF IN THESE SITUATIONS_

_not helping, Chris._

_You’ll be fine, Georgi_

_It’s just skating with a stick_

_Make sure you Instagram a photo of you in all your gear_

_Actually update me on what’s going on_

 

As it turned out, it was not just skating with a stick. Or rather, it was the stick that was the problem. Georgi kept tripping himself up with it. Without the stick, he was alright. Or at least he wasn’t continually falling. With the stick, he was absolutely hopeless. And he was reasonably well informed that the stick was a rather integral part of the kit. Georgi went to skate in a lazy arc and the moment he allowed the stick to actually touch the ice, it somehow got stuck in a chink in the wall, and once again found that his skates had shot out from underneath him.

He lay, sprawled on the ice, and felt sorry for himself. Yekaterina skated over to him and offered a hand to help him up. “I should be finding this less hilarious,” she comented, trying not to laugh, but evidently not trying very hard. “Keep trying not to fall over the stick and I’ll grab a puck.”

Georgi took a few experimental strides and managed not to trip himself up. Until he saw the boards approaching, went to use his toe pick, forgot that it wasn’t there, and slammed into the Perspex window. Katya skated over as he once again dragged himself up off the ice, this time using the boards.

“You want to turn your skates so that they’re perpendicular to the way you’re going, then they’ll grind you to a stop.”

“You mean like I was doing when I fell over the first time?”

“You tripped over the stick the first time. And all those other times. Which has been hilarious.”

“Remind me why I’m here?” Georgi moaned.

“The rules of the league just say that we need a certain number of people on the ice or we forfeit. We’re already into the finals, regardless of how this game goes, as long as we don’t forfeit due to numbers. Just stick to the sides and try not to fall over. If you do fall over, which I’m pretty sure you will, make sure you tuck your limbs in so that nobody skates into them. Do you want to try skating with the puck?”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a question.” She batted a puck across to him. Georgi did what felt like the logical thing, and skated away from it. And promptly fell over. At least not because he had tripped himself up with the stick.

Georgi eventually gathered the confidence to poke at the puck. After a while, Yekaterina skated silently over to him and tapped him on the shoulder, which, of course, made him fall over again. Georgi didn’t bother getting up. “Just leave me here to slowly freeze to death,” he moaned.

“Come on,” she said, offering a hand to him and once again somehow magically staying upright as she pulled him up. “Let’s grab some water and get you all kitted up.”

Georgi dropped the stick next to the bag of padding and slumped down on a bench, staring off into the middle distance as he wondered how his life had led him to this point. It was a bleak prospect.

Yekaterina stepped off the ice with considerably more grace than Georgi had managed and started applying padding. “Don’t look so sad. We’re having fun.” A slightly manic smile accompanied that statement.

“We are? I hadn’t noticed.” Georgi grabbed his phone and fired off a flurry of messages to Christophe.

_it is not just skating with a stick_

_I suck at this_

_I keep falling_

_how do they manage with flat blades and no pick_

_what the fuck_

_I hit the boards_

_because there was no pick_

_smashed my face into a sheet of fucking Perspex_

_like an idiot_

His intent had been to fire off a quick update, but somewhere along the line his brain disconnected from his fingers. He stowed his phone back in the bag with his figure skates, and took off his jacket and sweatpants as Yekaterina gradually strapped things onto him until he felt like a giant squishy snowman. “Come on, Georgi. Let’s get you back on the ice.”

“Can you take a photo of me first?” he asked, unlocking his phone. “I promised a friend of mine that I’d Instagram this.”

Yekaterina rolled her eyes, but took the phone and handed Georgi a stick. And then demonstrated how he should pose with it. Once she was happy with the composition, she took the photo and handed Georgi his phone back. “Let’s try this again.”

Georgi fell over again the moment he placed both skates on the ice, but his centre of gravity was well off, because his but at least this time he had armour on. So it probably wasn’t going to bruise like all the other falls were. It did, however, mean that he couldn’t get himself back up, encumbered as he was. “Help,” he groaned, waving his arms and legs in the air.

Yekaterina choked slightly as she tried not to laugh. Georgi had to credit her for the effort. “Are you sure I can’t just do this in my figure skates?” he asked, not bothering to ask the real question, which was ‘how did I find myself being roped into playing ice hockey with some curler I’ve only just met?’

“Not enough protection. You’re getting the hang of it.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only a little.”

Georgi stood upright, overbalanced because he wasn’t used to wearing that much padding on the ice, and faceplanted again. “Just leave me here to die,” he groaned, before shuffling on his stomach over to the boards and pulling himself up.

Georgi was actually starting to get the hang of it (or at least he was falling over marginally less) as more hockey players arrived and started dressing and skating around, passing pucks from person to person, when he was surprised by someone yelling “Georgi, davai!” at which point he started and fell again, earning a chorus of winces. Dragging himself upright again, he looked over in the direction of the call and sighed.

“Friends of yours?” Yekaterina asked.

“Unfortunately,” Georgi replied. Waving at him like a lunatic was Mila, along with Yuri, and a number of Mila’s various acquaintances who she had met at her last youth Olympics and had somehow managed to keep in touch with. It looked as if she had dragged together every single winter youth athlete in St Petersburg, which honestly wouldn’t have surprised him. Mila was looking very smug indeed. Georgi skated carefully over to them. “What are you doing here?”

“We wanted to see your Ice Hockey debut,” Mila said, snapping a selfie with a very unimpressed looking Georgi. “It turns out there’s only one ice hockey league in St Petersburg which has games on a Thursday. You know she’s super cute when she’s not yelling at you. You should ask her out.”

“I hate you.”

“I promised Christophe I’d film it.”

“Seriously, Mila, I hate you so much right now.”

“Don’t get your face mashed up,” Yuri muttered in Georgi’s direction, in that charming manner of teenagers who don’t want to be seen to care. “Olympics are in two months.”

Mila elbowed Yuri. “Shut up. He’ll be fine. You’re going to do so well.”

Georgi did not do so well. He managed to avoid any contact with the puck, and yet was checked about twenty times during the course of the game. His rinkmates very soon gave up on yelling encouragement, and just started filming him, while periodically wincing. When the game was over, and everyone was off the ice, Georgi, feeling like he had been trampled by a herd of elephants, took off his gloves and jersey, and started fumbling with the shoulderpads. “Good work there, idiot boy,” said the woman from Katya’s curling team, Zhenya, he remembered, ruffling his hair. The rest of the team slapped him on the back as they returned to their bags and started stripping off their protective gear.

“Are you coming out with us afterwards, Koshka?” Zhenya asked Yekaterina.

“Not tonight. I’ve got to dump Fedya’s and my stuff back home, and then I should probably get this one home safely without collapsing.” She indicated Georgi, who had been struggling with the same buckle for almost a minute. Yekaterina sat down next to him and swatted his hand away, and then undid her skates and pulled off her jersey, somehow managing to make the removal of a bag worth of body armour look easy. As she started efficiently doing the same to Georgi, she looked him over. “Anything hurting more than it should?” she asked, as he stretched his arms.

“Nothing more than a lot of bruising,” Georgi answered, finishing packing everything away and redressing for the outdoors, feeling too tired for anything more than basic functions.

On the train, he opened his message thread with Christophe, which did not disappoint.

_oh man, Mila sent me some videos_

_you are not good at ice hockey_

_at all_

_ask scary girl out._

_her name’s Yekaterina_

_wow. could she sound any more Russian?_

_ask Yekaterina out_

_AND POST SOMETHING TO INSTAGRAM_

_I’M DYING HERE_

Georgi posted the photo of him in hockey gear. He had to admit that it was a good photo. He almost looked like he knew what he was doing. He posted it with the caption #BadLifeChoices2013 #PickingASportForRetirement. Almost immediately it was liked by Christophe.

Georgi looked up to see Katya glancing at him over the screen of her phone. “You did well,” she said, apropos of nothing. “For someone who’d never played before in their life, you did pretty well.”

“Someone who’s never playing again,” Georgi commented.

“Also probably for the best. You’re infinitely better at figure skating.”

“And rubbish at hockey.”

“Also that,” she admitted, getting up as the train approached the station. When they were back at her house, having dropped off the equipment, Yekaterina grabbed him by the hand and pulled him to the garage, pointing him at a car. “Where do you live? I’m driving you home.”

Georgi did his best not to fall asleep on the way there. When they arrived, he looked over at Yekaterina, who was drumming her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “Do you want to come inside? My flatmate moved to Japan to coach my main competition, so you don’t need to worry about meeting more of my lunatic friends.”

Yekaterina snorted. “Do I want to know the story behind that?”

“Do I want to revisit it?” Georgi asked, some of the bitterness resurfacing. “No.”

Yekaterina raised an eyebrow. “That bad?” He nodded. “I can’t come up,” she said, checking the clock on the dashboard. “I’m skyping my brothers tonight. They’re all in Canada and the USA, so it ends up happening at a stupid hour. I try to get some sleep before I call them.”

“Do you…uh… want to go out with me some time? On a date?” he asked, too tired to even kick himself for that useless phrasing.

Yekaterina patted him on the arm. “How about I give you my number, and you get in touch some time you’re not so exhausted you struggle to string together a sentence?” Georgi unlocked his phone and handed it across, where she saved herself as a contact, then snapped a selfie of the two of them and sent it to herself. “Go get some sleep.”

With a half-hearted wave, Georgi got out of the car and let himself into the apartment building. He had just enough time to pour himself a glass of water before Chris finally let his curiosity get the better of him and just skyped him.

“SO DID YOU ASK HER OUT?” Christophe was sitting on a sofa, holding his cat.

“I tried,” Georgi said, putting his phone on the countertop as he took some bread out of the freezer and set to making himself some eggs. “She gave me her number and told me to try asking her out when I wasn’t completely exhausted.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yeah.”

“AWESOME! When?”

“I don’t know? Tomorrow?”

“Good. Now tell me about her.”

“She’s a physio when she’s not curling. She has a bunch of hockey playing brothers in Canada and the USA. One of them has just started college. She plays hockey in her spare time, clearly. She’s really scary when she’s yelling.”

“A physio, you say?” Christophe sounded like he was plotting something.

“Yes, why?”

“I assume you’re going to have some interesting bruises tomorrow from all your falls.”

Georgi pulled his singlet away from his chest and looked around. “I’ve already got some,” he said, pulling up his singlet at the side and pointing his phone camera at the bruise already appearing.

“Was that visual solely for my benefit?” Christophe asked with a wink.

“Of course it was,” Georgi said, blowing him a kiss with a smile. “Why are you asking if I have bruises given that she’s a physio?”

“Tomorrow morning, you are going to take a photo of some bruising which ‘accidentally’ includes a whole load of your glorious chest muscles, and you are going to send it to her saying something like ‘about last night’. And then you are also going to send it to me. And then you are also going to post it to Instagram, because you don’t put nearly enough shirtless photos on there. And then when she replies, you are going to say ‘hey, do you want to get coffee some time’, and then she will say yes, because she will be operating under the influence of muscles and war wounds. And then you will tell me everything. And send screenshots.”

“I will do some of those things,” Georgi agreed.  “Probably.”

“You will do all of those things, definitely, or so help me I will hunt you down after the final is over and kick your ass like I did at the Trophée de France this year.”

“Wow, Chris. Harsh.”

“You know I will,” he said, stroking his cat in a very Bond-villain-like manner, which couldn’t have been an accident. Nothing was ever an accident for Chris.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I must send a shout-out to the magnificent [ilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilien) for her help with authenticity.


End file.
